


Useless Facts

by bamkam



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Featuring a random hodgepodge of Avengers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also one of these days i'll learn how to write a proper 5x+1 fic, as in I wrote this before actually reading the comics and knowing how Sputnik affected Bucky, blame the internet for that, but not today!!, general handwaving of the use of Sputnik, i'm not responsible if any of these facts aren't true, or really knowing anything about Bucky, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:39:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamkam/pseuds/bamkam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of these days, Steve thinks, he'll have to thank Clint for his help in bringing Bucky back to him. </p><p>Or: a 5 times+1 fic where Clint spouts off random facts, and it seems to help Bucky heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Useless Facts

**Author's Note:**

> One of these days I'll be able to write a Marvel fic without smashing all the potential universes into one big mess. Until then, here's this!

It’s high noon, and the city is nearly deafening. Steve attributes it to the nice weather since there’s more people out than usual, crowding the sidewalks and the streets, but he’s also long been accustomed to the noise. New York may have gotten much brighter since he woke up, but the clamor of the city is the one thing that’s never changed. Sometimes, at night, he will even open the window and just let the sounds of the city wash over him, when he’s feeling out of his time, his skin. For Steve, it’s a comfortable backdrop. 

For Bucky, it’s an obstacle. He understands cities in terms of hiding spots, sleeper agents, and collateral damage, not somewhere to thrive. When Steve gently prompted him, he could only distantly remember the New York they had shared. Instead, he knows this modern New York better, from previous missions, and would sometimes point out his positions if he could find them in the pictures Steve showed him.

But Bucky was going to have to venture outside at some point; Steve knew he was going to have to introduce his friend to the actual city, outside of the photos. Especially after he had finally showed him the shield, and Bucky gazed, both in pain and in awe.

(“You fight,” he had said, and Steve nodded even though Bucky already knew the answer.

“Then me too.”)

Bucky’s tense the entire time, hasn’t let his shoulders drop since they left Stark tower, and when the honking of the cars rises in its crescendo, the grip on his paper cup tightens. Steve can practically hear him grinding his teeth.

“Buck, why don’t we take a break?” Steve suggests. If possible, Bucky tenses even more, and Steve can’t figure out if it’s because he doesn’t want to or because he spotted the man shouting up ahead.

He can’t read his best friend anymore, and he hates that.

“Let’s find somewhere calm for a second, yeah?” Steve puts a hand on the small of Bucky’s back with the intent to steer him into the nearest, quietest lobby, but he quickly removes it when Bucky twitches. Beside them, Clint watches silently, eating his hot dog.

Steve huffs. Clint wasn’t even supposed to be here right now; he had planned on it just being him and Bucky. That way he could quietly guide his friend without anyone else’s unwanted guidance, slowly reintroducing Bucky at his own pace. But the archer had popped up out of nowhere when they were about to leave, and Bucky had looked so fascinated by him that Steve had stomped down his jealousy to invite Clint.

Even now, he’s got to remind himself that his focus is Bucky right now, not Clint and his judgements.

 _Perceived_ judgements, Steve has to remind himself. He doesn’t know if Clint is actually judging Bucky or not right now.

Clint stops eating his hot dog when Bucky finally digs his heels in and refuses to walk any further, metal hand balled into a tight fist. Then, casually, he remarks, “Did you know that most American cars honk in the key of F?”

“Clint,” Steve struggles to reign in his snarl. Bucky needs a calmer place, _now_ , and that’s what he says?

But Bucky just stares curiously at Clint. “Why?”

Clint shrugs in response, slurping his soda, nonplussed.

And then Steve notices it; as Bucky stares out at the passing, honking cars, the tension gradually leaves his fists, shoulders, and jaw, until his free hand is handing loosely at his side. He’s still guarded, Steve can see it in his stance, but he looks _much_ calmer than before.

“That’s a dumb thing to know,” he mumbles.

“Hey,” Clint suddenly says, “can we find a pretzel cart? Bet those haven’t changed much, plus I’m still starving.”

Bucky nods, and follows Clint freely. Steve’s eyebrows shoot up.

Huh.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Bucky hasn’t eaten.

This morning had been his third breakdown in the past four days, and frankly Steve is exhausted. He’s been forced to stay hyper-vigilant, keeping a careful eye on Bucky at all times. The first one was the worst, and probably has been burned into Steve’s mind, no matter how much he fights it. Bucky still has faint red lines from his nails on his neck and shoulders from that one. At some point, he’ll have to visit Tony to get his arm checked out, but that will have to wait, and for now Bucky just cradles it to his chest for lack of anything better to do with it.

Steve thinks—hopes—that being there for his friend is helping, even a little. He has to be reminding Bucky that he’s not alone, he’s safe, that Steve will catch him. It must be working, he reasons, because the last panic attack had only lasted for an hour instead of the usual three or five.

Progress.

Still, Steve’s drained. Though, when he looks over at Bucky, he knows he’s feeling only a fraction of what his friend is—the rings under his eyes are so pronounced, it reminds Steve of tactical paint. His hair hangs lank in front of his face, having been too on edge to shower, and there’s sweat stains on his clothes.

Worse, Bucky’s face has barely shifted since his last breakdown; he’s gone terrifyingly still.

Nothing Steve has tried has changed the blank stare—no amount of careful conversations, music, or movies have worked. He has no idea what prompted all this, and has no idea how to stop it either.

So Steve resorts to food.

He can count on one hand all of the meals Bucky’s had in the past few days, and hopes that eating might get _something_ out of Buck.

It at least gets him out of the confines of his room, if nothing else, which Steve counts as a small victory.  

Pulling together the ingredients feels familiar, and his heart lifts with nostalgia as he puts the pot on to boil. The movements are automatic, he doesn’t need to think when he begins chopping onions and peppers, moving to throw some pasta noodles into the boiling water.

Bucky, who has been sitting silently at the kitchen island, does seem to perk up slightly, possibly from recognizing the preparation that he used to see hundreds of times, possibly from the awareness over food being made.

Steve wants the former more than he cares to admit.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice cracks; it’s got to be sore from all of the screaming.

“Yeah, Buck?” Steve says, voice light. “Know what I’m making?”

Bucky considers it, eyes raking over Steve’s ministrations. He’s heating up the sauce now, dumping the onions and peppers in with it. Bucky gives a small nod.

“Spaghetti.”

“Do you remember who used to make this for me and you all the time?” Steve asks, almost too quick, and his heart sinks as he watches Bucky visibly shrink away from the question. “Hey, it’s okay, it’ll come back to you and we can—”

“Yo!”

Bucky jumps as Clint walks in, muddied, bloodied, and looking far too chipper. He’s holding a basket of what look like to be loaded fries, and he pulls a cheesy French fry out to eat as he hops into the chair next to Bucky. Steve’s momentarily alarmed, ready to intervene, but Bucky isn’t fazed by the archer’s appearance.

Strange. He couldn’t even be in the same room as Tony and Bruce earlier.

“Something smells good!” Clint says, munching on a fry, and Steve just nods.

“Spaghetti. You want a bowl?”

Clint stretches, popping several kinks out of his back, and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m cool. I’m probably going to crash after the adrenaline high goes away.”

“Just got off a mission?” Steve asks, looking for any potential injuries on his teammate. He doesn’t find any other than a few minor cuts and bruises, and he turns to grab two bowls from the cupboard. It takes a Clint a second to answer, and when Steve looks over, he sees it’s because the archer is looking at Bucky, who’s taken to staring at the counter, biting his lip. “Clint?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Super exhausting stuff, but I got it done. Hey, Bucky, did you know that a pound of potato chips costs two-hundred times more than a pound of potatoes?”

When Bucky looks up, eyebrows furrowed, Clint’s holding out a particularly cheesy French fry. Bucky hesitates, then accepts it.

“These are French fries.” He croaks.

Clint pauses mid-chew, then shrugs. “Same diff.” He then gives Bucky another fry.

Steve is floored.

Later, after Steve and Bucky eat (and he does eat, tentatively, two bowls), Bucky watches as Steve cleans the dishes in the sink. He’s got that familiar funny look on his face, and Steve waits.

“Your mom used to make this for us.”

Steve simply hums in response, trying to not appear too excited. He does let slip a giddy smile though.

“Hers was better.”

When Steve looks over, surprised, Bucky gives him a wavering smile.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Steve’s already got the movie all set up, bowls of popcorn and pop waiting on the table, by the time everyone files in.

“Damn, someone’s excited for movie night!” Tony notes, dumping himself into one of the overstuffed chairs. Shortly after him, Janet practically flies in and leaps into one of the loveseats.

“Yes! Movie night! I’m so ready!” She grabs one of the bowls of popcorn and digs in, moaning around the buttery snack. “After the week I’ve had, I _so_ need this!”

The room fills up quickly, Bruce taking the remaining chair and Hank sitting next to Janet. Sam takes his usual spot on the floor, with Thor sitting above him. The only one who is missing is Natasha, away on a mission, and it takes Sam all of two seconds before he leaps into her usual spot, whooping happily.

“No sore butt for me tonight!”

Clint races in before anyone can respond—though Tony looks like he still really wants to—and drops onto the couch Steve’s on with a groan.

“Whoa, Legolas, you look terrible.”

“Thanks, Tony.” Clint says, not even moving from his prone position. 

“Tough day?” Steve asks, alarmed. Will Clint ever come into the building _not_ covered in a ton of bandages?

Clint nods. “Apartment woes.” And leaves it at that.

Steve notices the quick flicker of Clint’s eyes as he surveys the room before fully relaxing into the cushions. He seems to be only one who notices Bucky in the background.

The fact that Bucky’s here gives Steve an excited thrill. It’s the first communal thing his friend is joining in, and Steve only had to persuade him just a little bit. Of course, Bucky had wanted to know who was going to be there first—information Steve gladly gave—before telling Steve that he would watch from the shadowed kitchen.

Steve didn’t press him for any more. He knew to pick his battles.

Still, Steve couldn’t stop smiling as he presses play.

“Oooh, Goldeneye!” Janet squeals. “I haven’t seen this in ages!”

“Good pick, Steve.” Sam adds. “You’ll love it.”

“It’s a good thing Miss Muffet isn’t here tonight.” Tony jokes, grabbing the other bowl of popcorn, and Clint’s gone rigid.

“Be nice, Tony,” Steve lightly admonishes, mostly for Clint’s benefit, but smiles when Tony dramatically rolls his eyes at him before settling into his seat.

As the movie progresses, Steve realizes that he should have read up more on the plotline. If he would’ve known, he would have picked something, _anything_ , else to watch.

He glances back to the kitchen a few times, desperate to check up on Bucky, and he doesn’t like the deepening frown on his friend’s face.

He doesn’t know what to do. No one else appears to be aware that Bucky’s in the room still, if their constant jokes and terrible Russian accents are anything to go by. If Steve stops the movie, then it will only draw attention to Bucky, and that could end badly if he feels cornered. He doesn’t want to escalate the situation. But if he doesn’t do anything, Bucky will only get more and more uncomfortable.

Steve hopes his friend knows that he doesn’t have to stay, that he has the power to leave at any time.

Clint stirs when, in the movie, Valentin pours himself a drink, and points at the screen. “Product placement!”

Collectively, the group groans, and Tony throws a pillow at the archer. Clint catches it easily, cackling.

“Seriously, Arrows? Are you going to do that every time?”

“Yup!” Clint pops the ‘p’, looking far too smug.

“We still have half a movie left!” Janet complains.

“Shh! Steve’s missing it!” Sam’s harsh hushing cuts out the conversation, and for a moment they turn back to the movie.

Steve hears maybe two minutes’ worth of what is probably an importantly plot-driven conversation between Bond and Valentin before Clint’s at it again.

“Hey, guys, did you know that vodka is a disinfectant?”

“ _Clint!_ ”

Steve doesn’t know what Janet’s about to say because her mouth clicks closed when there’s a loud burst of laughter from the dark kitchen. At once, all heads whip around to find the source of the noise, and suddenly the air is thick with tension when everyone spots Bucky.

“That was one good thing—I always had a bottle of the stuff for that exact reason.” Getting up from the stool, Bucky strolls over to sit on the couch, in-between Steve and Clint. He throws an arm over the back of the couch, fingers near Clint’s neck, and actually grins at the archer. “It’s a damn good anesthetic too.”

An honest-to-God _grin_. At someone other than Steve!

 _Progress!_ Steve’s mind screams.

Clint laughs, loud and easy. “I wonder why!”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

When Bucky walks into the training room, Steve sees that there’s only a twitch of a pause in the room, but then his teammates refocus on their own exercises, looking for the large part unaffected. Good, Steve thinks. He had told everyone that Bucky was cleared for training, and he definitely approves of everyone’s response.

Not that there was much cause for worry to begin with; so far, Bucky has finally warmed to everyone in the tower, and they, him.

Though he supposes he can understand their reservations—no one has yet seen Bucky fight, not as himself.

“Hey, Buck! Over here!” He calls, waving him over to the ring where he and Tony are. Bucky looks light, excited, as he walks over. He’s made so much progress; talking more, laughing more, _everything_ more. Steve can finally see James Buchanan Barnes again.

“Hey Stevie, Shellhead,” Bucky greets with a grin, climbing through the ropes. Tony scoffs at him.

“Terminator, I don’t appreciate the over-used nickname when _Stevie_ is so much cuter. So not fair!”

“What’s there to add to ‘Tony’? Your name’s already cute, sweetheart.” Bucky winks, grinning wolfishly, making Tony sputter and Steve laugh loud. “Okay, what are we doin’ then?” He practically bounces on his feet as he stretches his limbs out, warming up. After being cooped up on the private quarters level for so long, he’s itching to do something that makes him sweat and gets his blood pumping.

It’s a complete opposite from the anxious man who wouldn’t leave his room. Steve couldn’t be more delighted.

“Just the basics today,” Settling into an easy defensive stance, he raises his fists. Bucky copies him. “Hand-to-hand.”

Tony immediately leaves the ring, calling out “freedom!” as he heads to the showers.

“Ready?” Steve asks.

Bucky smirks, eyebrows raised, and swipes his right leg out to trip Steve.

Steve jumps away from the foot and leaps forward to give a quick jab at Bucky’s side, testing, but the metal arm stops him completely, and he backs off.

Since they found him, Steve’s always wanted to see Bucky fight, without any of the brainwashing, but he had hidden the thought deep inside of him as he tried to get Bucky’s head on straight first. But now, Bucky’s swinging quick, powerful punches left and right, and Steve’s definitely impressed. He moves with a certain savage grace, arms and legs whipping against Steve with fantastic force. He hasn’t forgotten anything, his moves instinctive, and Steve is on the defensive more than offensive.

It’s _exhilarating_ , being able to train with his friend in ways he couldn’t before, without having to hold back.

But something happens within Bucky’s mind, like a switch; his eyes turn into iced steel and there’s a renewed, animalistic vigor in him. His punches turn nearly lethal, striking out to do damage, not train. Steve only has a second to remember where he’s seen that look before he’s knocked on his back, his arms and torso quickly pinned down. Steve gasps, trying to suck in air around the hand on his throat; he can’t rock himself out of Bucky’s hold, and doesn’t have the shield with him as advantage.

“Buck—” Distantly, he can hear shouts, but all he’s focused on is the raised metal fist above him, ready to come crashing down.

An arrow suddenly cuts through between them, dangerously close to Bucky’s nose, before ricocheting off a far beam, then the ceiling, and finally whizzing back to nearly embed itself in the center of a target.

Bucky’s head snaps up, eyes trailing the flying arrow, and Steve sees his opening.

Bucking his hips, he throws an unprepared Bucky off of him and quickly twists around to pin him to the mat.

“Bucky!” He’s fighting against him, trying to gain purchase on the smooth ground, but Steve’s got an iron-tight hold that Bucky can’t break. Behind him, Natasha’s shouting in Russian, and Tony is calling for his armor. “Not necessary, Stark!”

“Tell Sputnik to knock it off, then!” At the nickname, Bucky stops thrashing, going completely still. When his eyelids flutter and his head flops to the side, Steve begins to panic.

“Bucky?” He calls, shaking his friend. Bucky doesn’t move—though he’s still breathing, Steve had checked his pulse, and he frantically looks behind him at Tony. “What the hell did you _say_?”

“He-he passed out?” Is all Tony can say, eyes wide. Clint rushes up next to him, grabbing the ropes.

“ _Sputnik_ ,” Natasha supplies, the word heavy in her Russian accent. The look on her face shows she knows something. “It’s his shut-off switch.”

“Switch-off switch?” Steve mutters, staring down at his friend. “Then he’ll be okay?”

“Yes,” Just as quickly, the accent is gone. “We will just wait for him to wake up.”

 

It doesn’t take long before Bucky’s eyes snap open, and he struggles into a sitting position. They’re still in the training room, he’s still on the mat, and everyone is still surrounding him. Though when they see he’s awake, everyone but Steve makes some room.

“Bucky?” He asks, careful.

Steve watches as the realization hits, and Bucky nearly whimpers as he grabs at his face. “Oh god,” he whispers, and starts shaking. “ _Oh my god_.”

Steve falls on him, enveloping his friend in an awkward hug, shushing his panicked gasps. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, Bucky. You just need more experience; this will get easier.”

“I nearly—if it was anyone else, I would’ve—if it wasn’t for _Clint_ —” Bucky’s head then whips to the side, searching for the archer.

Clint materializes in seconds, crouching down next to Bucky. “Hey, it’s cool.” He smiles thinly. “Everyone’s always amazed by my awesome archery skills.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, but his shaking subsides, and Steve pulls away just enough to give him some space. Behind him, Tony and Natasha shift, tensed, and he feels his ears burn with a shame he shouldn’t feel.

None of this should have happened. Bucky was doing so well—he had been _cleared_ by the top psychologists at SHIELD. What if he reverts back, what if he’s too afraid to try anything else again? He had been so adamant on fighting alongside Steve, but this could be a dangerous setback. Steve never wants to see his friend that low ever again; he’s so afraid.

“Wanna see it again?” Clint casually asks, his grin a little more genuine, like all he had been doing was showing off. Bucky stares at the archer for a long time before finally giving a quick, small jerk of his head.

Clint shoots up to his feet, and, in one fluid movement, grabs an arrow, cocks it, and lets it fly.

He doesn’t turn around to watch, doesn’t need to, as the arrow follows the same path of the last one, making small pings when it bounces off the walls, before finally splintering through the first arrow to land a perfect bullseye.

As if a flipped was switched, the tension dissipates, both from Bucky’s shoulders and from the room. Clint smiles victoriously.

“I-I haven’t seen that much skill since the Commandos,” Bucky mumbles, looking mildly awestruck.

Clint bows, entirely too smug. “I always do try to use all fifty bones in my hands to be the purest form of badass.”

“That’s wrong,” Natasha interjects. Clint falters, like he only just remembered that they had an audience.

“What?”

“That’s wrong,” She repeats. “The hand only has twenty-seven bones. Twenty-seven plus twenty-seven is fifty-four, not fifty.”

“Bullshit. I know I read somewhere that the hand has less than that.” Clint’s ears are burning, and Steve watches Bucky smile a little at the archer.

“Sorry, Jazz Hands, Nat’s right on this one.” Tony adds, finally starting to dry his sopping wet hair that had hung on his shoulders.

Clint sputters. “How do _you_ know that?”

“You mean beside from having multiple PHDs?” Tony raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m Iron Man. Duh.”

“Oh, oh okay.” Clint mocks, rolling his eyes. “Because that makes _perfect_ sense.”

He does turn back to Bucky, though, and amends, “I always try to use all _fifty-four_ bones in my hands to be awesome.”

In response, Bucky’s grin brightens a little more, and something clicks in Steve’s head.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Steve was in the living area when the alarm went off, and thanks to the ceiling-to-floor windows, had saw the white light in the morning sky when it burst, momentarily blinding him, before dissipating into a large, rippling hole. It looked like a large creature had clawed its way through the clouds, ripping open a portal from space above the heart of the city.

When the first alien flew out of the hole, a large, ferocious beast with glistening scales and thick claws, Steve’s thoughts are confirmed.

At least the army that follows the first one seems much smaller in size, making it obvious who the Avengers will have to take out first.

Steve’s already formulating a plan of attack in his head as he grabs his shield and makes his way to the hangar. The team’s already there, suited up and prepared, and it takes only seconds before the jet thrusts out of the tower and into the air.

Steve doesn’t miss the way Bucky and Clint are urgently whispering to each other at the front of the jet, but he puts it out of his mind, steeling himself to jump into the fray.

 

“Hawkeye, report!” Captain America barks into his comms. Two of the shrieking aliens converge on him at once, but he disables them with a roundhouse kick and quick slices with his shield. He can’t help but glance up at the rooftops, looking for that familiar streak of purple.

Clint had been in the middle of a joke when his mic had cut off, after a terrifyingly loud gurgle. Steve makes short work of another predator, careful to dodge the gleaming scales. “ _Hawkeye_!”

“Captain!” Clint cuts through, and relief rushes though Steve. But the archer sounds strange, pained, like it’s hard for him to talk. “Got a situation!”

 “Another boss?” Sam asks, panting. He’s facing two aliens of his own, whipping around them to land devastating blows. A gunshot rings out, and one of the creatures drops, allowing Sam to focus on the other two that spring up in its place.  

“What _kind_ of situation, Barton?” Bucky growls out, firing off more shots at the aliens that have gone airborne.

“Did you find where the portal went?” Steve’s shield cuts through three more aliens, narrowly avoiding their sharp teeth, and _seriously_ , where are these things coming from now?!

“’Fraid not,” is all Clint gets out before there’s a loud, ominous rumble.

Steve’s head snaps around as the ground shakes; bits of debris start to fall from the building he knows Clint is on, exploding onto the pavement. With a sickening drop of his stomach, Steve sees Clint at the edge of the crumbling building before he disappears.

“Get out of there, Barton!” Steve yells, sprinting to the building.

“There’s civilians still! Three of them!” Clint’s shouting, and Steve doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t have his aids anymore or because he’s afraid.  

“Iron Man!”

“Yep!” A red streak flies by and up to the roof. An alien catapults into his view, and Steve can’t watch any more as his focus is forced on the creatures that have ambushed him. There’s seven, all of them jumping onto Steve at once, and he has to use all of his strength to avoid the venom oozing from their scales, careening his shield off of one to wound another. It’s a bloody fight, blue streaks of it blending in with Steve’s costume, but the creatures aren’t swayed, piling up to fight even as Steve cuts down the ones they replace.

He can’t call for help; a quick glance around tells him that Sam, Janet, and Natasha are similarly swamped on the ground. A distant roar tells him that Thor, Hank, and Hulk are still fighting the creatures further down the blocks, protecting the outer ring of the fight to avoid more damage to the city.

Tony hasn’t reported back, and there’s still silence from Clint’s comms.

Steve misses the alien that sneaks up behind him, and notices only after he’s heard two staccato gunshots. The creature falls at his feet.

“Thanks Buck,” he pants out, distracted. Above him, he finally sees Tony flying the frightened office workers to the safe zone.

Clint’s not with him.

“Where’s Hawkeye!” Steve yells out. There’s several loud cracks coming from the building, and he has to run out of the way to avoid being crushed by the large fragments of concrete.

“Did you not hear, Cap? He’s stuck; I already sent Falcon up!” Tony’s tone betrays something that Steve doesn’t want to think about.

“Right. Falcon—”

“FALCON!” Bucky roars, making Steve’s ears ring, “COME GET ME!”

In the sky, Sam flawlessly executes a tight circle to swoop down and grab the straps of Bucky’s vest, lifting him into the air.

“Bucky! What are you doing!” There’s no response; Cap’s comm has gone quiet. They must have switched to a private channel, and his heart fills with a terrified dread.

Suddenly, Clint’s voice crackles through, coughing harshly.

“Barton!” This is good, Steve thinks, they can keep a lock on Clint if he stays online. A deafening creaking sound starts, and the building lists slightly, ready to fall. Steve’s forced to move farther away, throwing any advancing creatures underneath the falling debris.

“You can’t kill yourself by holding your breath.” Clint gasps out.

And Steve watches, helplessly, as the roof collapses in on itself, as a lone arrow with rope attached shoots up above the chaos, as Sam and Bucky fly into the thick, dark cloud of dust.

“Hawkeye!” He screams. No response.

“Falcon! Report!” Natasha arrives at his side, a mixture of red and blue smeared on her costume, eyes searching the wreckage. Above them, Tony circles around the destructing building.

“I don’t see them, Steve.” He sounds terrified.

“Steve,” Janet grabs his arm, urging him back. “We need to move, now! Those other buildings are being hit. They’re going to fall.”

But Steve stays rooted to the spot, stays desperately searching the plume of dust. The energy is sapped from him. He falls to one knee.

“Bucky?” He says, just barely a whisper.

It can’t end like this.

 

“ _Here_!”

Sam explodes from the cloud, still carrying Bucky. A rope hangs taut below them with Clint dangling at the end of it.

“Bucky!” Steve soars to his feet. Relief floods him, and he exhales loudly around a grin.

“Feelin’ the love there, buddy.” Sam grunts. Tony flies underneath him to grab what looks to be an unconscious Clint, though he stays close to the other two, the rope swinging in-between the group.

When they land, Steve sees why.

Clint had tied the rope around one of his wrists, probably in a desperate attempt to secure his safety if the arrow actually landed, definitely shattering the bone. One the other end, part of the rope is wrapped around Bucky’s arm, cutting into the metal plates in some area, with the arrow jutting through the wrist.

“What—”

“We got there in time to catch the rope, and Bucky decided to shove the arrow into his damn arm.” Sam gasps, sagging to sit down on a large piece of rubble, clutching his stomach. Natasha and Janet rush over to him. “Would’ve lost him too if I hadn’t clipped him to me. The wings were barely able to hold all that weight; we barely made it.”

But they _did_ make it, all of them.

Steve whirls around to find his friend. “Bucky?”

But Bucky’s not looking at him. He’s taken Clint from Tony’s arms before falling to his knees, and is cradling the archer to his chest with his flesh hand. There’s an alarmingly steady flow of blood seeping through Clint’s clothes, and he has yet to wake up. When they make eye contact, Bucky bites out, “he needs medical.”

Amongst all the dust caking his skin, there are clear tracks on his cheeks.

Just then, as if the creatures had been waiting for them to regroup, a new wave of aliens descends, immediately calling the rest of the group back into action. Steve points at Bucky.

“Get him there.”

Bucky wastes no time. Popping the metal shoulder back into its manmade socket, he carefully gathers the archer safely into the bow of his flesh arm and runs off, the connected rope trailing behind him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 _If he can find a piece of steel structure, he can possibly hang on until Iron Man, Falcon,_ someone _, comes to rescue him._

_If he can run to the edge of the building and jump onto one of the neighboring buildings, he can jam an arrow into the side to prevent himself from falling._

_Hell, if he can just jump into the open air, it’d be a better death than suffocating underneath the rubble. Someone might even catch him._

_If, if, if._

_But Clint can’t run. He’s practically prone, on his knees, clutching his side in a desperate attempt to impede the steady flow of blood. He had been so absorbed in getting the civilians to Iron Man, he didn’t see the crumbling staircase structure until he was pinned beneath the debris._

_He hopes they got to safety, even if he won’t._

_The ground lurches, cracks, and shatters around him, the roof collapsing in on itself. Clint’s knees nearly crash into his shoulders when he’s slammed down into the piece of rooftop that he’s still on. Dazed, he scrambles for purchase into the cracked surface as his feet slide out, toward the rapidly forming hole in the roof. He’s got maybe minutes—seconds—before the fragment he’s on falls too, and Clint needs to figure something out._

_He grabs his bow before it tumbles into the hole and, ignoring the searing pain in his side, grabs the only arrow he knows will help from his pack. He forces the rope from the end, and wraps it tight around his wrist, somehow managing to knot it. It’s a desperate measure; he can’t be sure if it will even work, but it’s the only thing he’s got. But his hands have stopped cooperating, they’re shaking too much, are too slippery from his blood, and he lets loose a broken sob. It takes him too long to nock the arrow._

_He lets the arrow loose right as the concrete below him breaks away and plummets._

“NO!” Clint screams, surging up from his pillow. He can’t see the walls of his bedroom—he’s still staring up at the rapidly receding sky above him, he’s still choking on the dust particles that clog his throat. His fingers claw at his sheets, slipping with what he still thinks is the blood from his wound instead of sweat. Around him, the lights flare on, and his door slams open.

Someone grabs him, and Clint thrashes at the arms encircling his waist and shoulders, still screaming, still begging for help. It’s only when he feels the soft wisp of hair trailing along his cheeks does his gaze focus, his brain unable to relate the soft caress to the flashback, and the room—with its strong, safe ground—swirls into view.

“ _Clint_ , Clint, you’re safe. You’re not falling, you’re in bed, we’ve got you—” Bucky’s holding him, lips brushing against his ears, hands gently running across as much skin as he can reach. Clint realizes he must have fallen asleep with his aids in, since he can hear.

Immediately, he falls into Bucky’s embrace, making him smaller to fit into those strong, safe arms, and lets out a broken sob. Bucky hushes him, soothes him, holds him.

“Buck,” Clint manages between broken gasps, and Bucky holds him tighter.

“Yeah, you’re here. We got you out. You fucked up your wrist, but it’s healing.” Bucky rattles off the answers before Clint can ask them, a familiar dance. “You’re safe, you’re _safe_ , Clint.”

It takes time, before Clint finally feels his heartbeat slow and his shoulders stop shaking. He slowly relaxes in Bucky’s hold, and breathes deep through his nose as metal fingers card through his short hair, gently massaging his scalp. Clint doesn’t want to leave this.

In response, Bucky’s stomach growls. Loudly.

“Um.” Is all he says, and Clint snorts. The crisis has passed, and he feels like he can stand on his legs without falling now, so he pulls away.

“Hungry?”

Bucky just grins sheepishly at him. “I was getting food when JARVIS called me.”

A pang of guilt shoots through Clint, and he winces. “Sorry.”

“No! It’s cool, it’s fine. I’m glad he did,” Bucky takes Clint’s hand, the one not wrapped in bandages, and kisses his knuckles before leading him from the bed and through the doorway.

Clint’s cheeks heat up, and he wordlessly falls in step behind the other man.

“Hey,” Bucky suddenly says, turning slightly to look at Clint. “Did you know that the average person eats like over fifty slices of pizza a year?”

Even as Clint’s spirits brighten, he narrows his eyes at Bucky. “Are you insinuating you’re going to try to cheer me up with that leftover pizza in the fridge?”

“Yup.”

“Are you going to warm it up for me first?”

“Probably not.”

Clint scoffs. “My hero.”

His eyes trail down to Bucky’s wrist, and though the metal planes have been replaced, he can still imagine the arrow that stuck clean through by Bucky’s own force.

Bucky catches his stare, and his smile softens.

“You too.”


End file.
